fragment, untitled
by stickers95
Summary: check for updates, since this chapter isn't finished yet. upon contracting a severe fever, will holmes realize what friend he has found in watson? or will this turn out to be just another doctor/patient relationship?
1. Chapter 1, victor devictus

**Chapter 1: "victor devictus (1)"**  
by stickers95

_(Watson)_

Not only to me, my dear friend Sherlock Holmes always appeared to be a vigorous and most energetic man whose physical strength seemed to reflect the enormous powers of the brain within, although, unknown to the public, he was using up on himself freely (and, which was even worse, frequently). As a friend and doctor, I of course couldn't approve of his unhealthy habits, neither those of his trade nor those inflicted by the eventual and unavoidable periods of leisure. But all my remarks as to this subject were put aside by him with the same air of indifference with which he cast away any words of praise, and things went on the same way as ever. And, even as a friend and doctor, had I ever been in a position to instruct him on these matters?

Nevertheless, the information Mrs. Hudson gave me on my return, made me worry. "It's good you're back, doctor," she said, kneading her hands in discomfort as she looked at me. "It's three days now," she continued, "and he's pale like a ghost and won't let me do anything for him..."

I had been on the countryside for a couple of days, visiting old friends of mine, and during my absence, Holmes obviously had contracted what, according to our landlady's description, could only be some kind of enteric fever. But a diagnosis shouldn't be hurried or based on prejudices or second-hand information, as it was also true for Holmes's business of deduction, and so I set aside my luggage instantaneously and climbed up the stairs leading to his room.

Although being prepared for the worst, I was quite shocked to find him in a most pitiful state, lying in his bed, pale and exhausted, his cheeks sunk in and very white, his eyes closed. His brows were glistening with cold sweat, and even from the spot where I had stopped at the door, it was obvious that he was breathing heavily and irregularly.  
Carefully, I approached him and settled on the rim of his bed.  
"Holmes," I said in a low voice, "can you hear me…?"  
He stirred and slowly opened his eyes. His gaze first was somewhat clouded, but then his eyes cleared as he focused on me. "Watson…" he replied in a meek voice.  
Unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson's fears seemed to have come true…

I reached for his forehead, feeling the heat underneath, and he did not object but lay still, letting me conclude my examination without any hindrance or comment. His eyes did response to light, but the accommodation reflex was very slow, and when I felt his pulse, I found it difficult to perceive any signs of heartbeat at all, so weak was his constitution.  
At this moment, he made a strange sound – something between a groan and a gulp, and with a sudden effort he tried to raise himself to a upright position before I could assist him in any way.  
"Watson – the bowl…"  
I grasped for the bowl on his bedside table and fortunately was able to hand it over to him just in time, before my friend bent over it, and threw up the last little bits of contents his stomach seemed so incapable of managing. But as far as I could see, there had not been any food left in him, because all he spat out were sheer gastric fluids and bile.

My presumptions were confirmed.  
These were exactly the symptoms I often enough had encountered in -…

A most troubled coughing sound dragged me back into reality. Shoulders sagged, head low, he still hung there, hardly capable of maintaining this position and breathing heavily.  
"I'm sorry," he whispered.  
In exchange for the bowl I handed him a towel. "For what…?"  
Slowly he lifted his head, and through the lush streaks of his dark hair that now nearly barred his sight, he looked at me with an expression of resignation and frustration.  
"For causing you so much trouble."  
"My dear Holmes," I replied. "You should have sent for me, and I would have returned earlier."  
Quite contrary to his habits, he did not reply, which added further to my worries.

Easing him back into a lying position was the next step, and then he lay there, trying to catch his breath, while my thoughts were running wild, focusing on a possible solution, a remedy.  
In my years in Afghanistan, I had encountered lots of fever attacks in my own regiment. Common to all these diseases, including even such plagues as the Cholera, was the imminent danger caused by the enormous dehydration. The constant loss of water and minerals through frequent spitting for many years had been regarded as irrelevant, a mere side-effect, but recently it had been discovered that in fact this was the greatest threat to a patient's health, much more than the accompanying fevers ever could be.  
Holmes also had lost weight and was weakened to a great extent, and there was an urgent need for replenishing the fluid reservoirs of his dehydrated body before I could turn my attention to the other symptoms of his malady.  
I lay my hand on his shoulder.

"Excuse me for a moment, my friend, I'll be back soon."

In my chamber, I took a deep breath.  
I wasn't exhausted from climbing the stairs – it was more like a feeling of gravest despair that had caused the lump in my throat, making me breathe heavily. And despite the fact that it was summer outside, that the air was filled with the sweetest scents such as of _Robinia pseudoacacia(2)_, I realized that I was shaken with fear – the fear that my friend and companion might die…

So I summoned all my instruments in my bag, as my eyes fell on a row of glass flasks which Percy Trevelyan, a fellow doctor we had met in the Case of the Resident Patient, had given me recently. We had kept in touch since then, and Trevelyan, eager to rise in medical rank through constant study, had provided me with these samples. One of them I remembered now, because he had described to me this drug in detail. It was a pale white crystalline powder called acetylsalicylic acid, a substance originating from the bark of the common _Salix(3)_ species, and said to be a painkiller and antipyretic, although it on the other hand could induce adverse effects such as gastrointestinal bleeding. For a moment, I hesitated, but then I stuffed it into my bag and went downstairs again.

Before I entered Holmes' room again, I called for Mrs. Hudson, explaining to her my intentions. I needed decocted water, which, by the process of sterilisation through the boiling heat, was germ-free or nearly germ free and therefore imposed no further threat to my poor friend's health. Within the last few years, I had read about Pasteur's(4) theories on germs, followed by Koch's(4) monograph on sterilisation, and found them reasonable. If any of these findings could be of help now, I would use them in finding a cure, since I still wasn't sure about the fever's origin. How could Holmes have contracted such a disease in the heart of London, in the middle of the civilized world? Could an East India trader have brought this plague over to the continent? Did he have contact with seamen at the docks?  
But this riddle was not to be solved now. The life of my friend was at stake, and all the rest would have to wait.

- + -

_(Holmes)_

Whenever I wake up from my feverish sleep, I find John Watson sitting at my bedside.  
Good old Watson…  
Never a man had a more faithful friend.

Whenever I stir, I find him still there, looking at me, watching in his most sympathetic way over my restless slumber.  
Always alert.  
Always patient.  
Always there when I need him.  
Did I ever let him know what he really means to me?  
No…

From the look in his eyes I can tell how worried he is. His glance is upon me, full of concern, and it makes me realize that things must be quite bad.  
If I look as bad as I feel, no wonder.

Every limb, every square inch of my body is aching, and I can hardly move. Picking up a glass of water, since he is urging me to drink a lot, has become a demanding task that leaves me exhausted.  
The pain in my stomach is easing away by now, but the feeling of sickness lingers on, and occasionally I am still shaken with fever…  
I feel tired and worn-out.  
Quite not myself.  
Even my thoughts are somewhat unarranged, fragmentary, short, as short my breath.

And now he is making me drink decocted water.  
I think that settles it.  
He's mortally afraid for me…

Has it really come that far?  
I often thought of death, but never of it to come to me in such unlikely a fashion.  
Well… I could imagine lots of much more unpleasant ways of fading away from this world than with John Watson at my side.

Probably it would break his heart.  
…But haven't I done so before?

So be it then – I've got to take it as it is.

Not much of a choice left in the state I'm currently in.  
I'm so tired…

But I'm glad he's here – here at my side.  
My John Watson.

- + -

* * *

(1) Latin, for "winner, defeated"

(2)_ Robinia pseudoacacia_, "Black Locust", also known as "Fake Acacia", is a tree of the _Fabaceae_ (pea) family. Native in the U.S., it was introduced into Britain in 1636. This tree's flowers emanate a sweet honey-like fragrance during the months of June/July.

(3) Of _Salix_, the common Willow tree, there are about 400 species to be found in the cold and temperate regions of the Northern Hemisphere. Leaves and bark contain salicylic acid, the pre-cursor to the so-called _Aspirin_ drug.

(4) _Louis Pasteur_, a French chemist, was one of the main defenders and promoters of the "germ theory" which blamed micro-organisms to be the cause for many diseases. He developed the so-called "pasteurisation" process (today still used on milk), a process for the reduction of germs in liquids and foods (in other words a food preservation process). _Robert Koch_, a German scientist/physician, was strongly influenced by his ideas. As a result of his findings during his work on anthrax bacteria, Koch recommended 1881 the sterilization of surgical instruments by heat, which was – until then – no common practise…!  
Both Pasteur and Koch, were named later founders of modern microbiology. For more detailed information, you better consult the internet or read a decent book.


	2. Chapter 2, opus major

**Chapter 2: "opus major (5)"**

**1. allegro moderato**

_(Holmes)_

There are two things I cannot get out of my mind at the moment. And it's not only my mind… Both have a singular, even delicate persistency which keeps me totally enthralled, wrapped in thoughts of overwhelming joy, making my mind _and_ body vibrate with anticipation.  
This _is_ ridiculous…

One of them is the first movement of this violin concerto, _allegro moderato_. It isn't nearly as moderate as its title says, not the least bit… "Joyously triumphant", this would be a more fitting description for these jubilant melodies that only a great mind could conceive.  
Much to Watson's pleasure, I tried to replay the piece at home, just to re-live the sensation, just to make it linger on, but its effect on me is like that of a drug – every use intensifies the addiction.

And with using these words in my desperate and whole-hearted appreciation for this masterpiece, I fear to admit and willingly give in to descending to the depths of emotion, to plunge deeply into those uncharted waters which I tried to avoid so many, many years, opening that window I carefully have kept shut for so long a time, since every glimpse at the overwhelming sweetness that lay behind nearly drove me out of my senses.  
I do have the distinct feeling that I cannot sneak away this time…

Maybe this is the real lifetime task set for me – navigating those utterly emotional areas of my mind which despite all my efforts to deny their existence still are present somewhere deep down inside of me, lurking in the shadows, and the lesson has already begun: My mind and senses are still dazzled and force me to start using expressions of a most helpless and romantic nature.

Oh God, please help me – because I do have a faint idea of where it will lead to…

- + -

**2. canzonetta: andante**  
_  
(Holmes)_

It is said that music is a healer, but now even the most magnificent of all masterpieces would be not enough to ease my pain…

I might say, without exaggeration, that in my trade, in the profession I've chosen and developed into an exact science of its own, my methods of deduction might be called "state-of-the-art" by now, and without my interference, fewer crimes would be unravelled and less justice being done. So, without seeking any praise or attention, I could claim to be quite successful so far.  
But outside of professional life, in that area which is commonly called the "private life" of an individual, I must admit to have failed miserably.

Why, above all, has it to be _him_…?

By night, I dream of him in the most fanciful ways one could ever think of, and to be honest, it is not that those dreams have come to me only recently. It is their intensity which has increased within the last few weeks. By day, I find it hard to keep my _contenance_, so that I now have started to avoid his company, out of the fear that I might let slip some inappropriate words or expose myself with a careless gesture.

I cannot get him out of my mind.

How can it be that a single look from a man's eye can turn me from a logical reasoner into a flaming, feverish passionate? How can a worried glance make me rethink any plans I'm about to work out, how a smile on his lips make my heartbeat quicken and my mind feel drunken with joy?

Why did it come _this_ way, why couldn't I have fallen for somebody else…?

But this is not the most important question.

He is so deeply rooted in society, so profoundly absorbed in conventions, that I do have to ask myself whether I really want to risk his reputation, his practice, his life, now that he has established himself over the years so splendidly. And although his brave heart longs for a little adventure from time to time, I always reach the same conclusion – I cannot do this to him.

My John Watson.

I've been wondering ever whether his tolerance will be wearing thin, his enduring of my bad habits going to cease since I've been using him to an extent that is nearly inexcusable.  
Despite the fact that he lets himself be used by me.  
Willingly.  
Knowingly?  
But that again is another question.

No, I can't tell him – nor could I live with the shame, with the pain of being rejected.

If it only wasn't him…

Even if he didn't laugh at me… who am I to drag him into the spheres of my uncouth passions?

I don't have the right to _do this_ to him.  
By all means – I _cannot_ tell him.

And this is killing me.

- + -

**3. allegro vivacissimo**

_(Watson)_

Two weeks later, Holmes had almost recovered.  
He had not taken up consulting yet again, but was luxuriating in his regained strength – rising late, taking long walks all on his own, eating regularly and excessively playing the violin. Especially since that evening a few days ago, when we attended Richter's version of Tchaikovsky's infamous violin concerto(6), I found him trying hard to re-play this vigorous masterpiece, thus musing over lengthy passages, studying intensely, working out the details of every tune or note.  
Much to my relief, he seemed also to be still refraining from his unhealthy habits of stimulating his craving mind.

I wouldn't have gone so far as to imply a complete change in his behaviour, but something definitely had affected him during his illness, I wondered. His violin-playing had become subject to a somewhat dreamy air, not only by the selection of pieces he played, but also by the way he was performing them. He seemed to be lost in his music… Moreover, he kept himself quite to himself, acting in a very reserved manner. Of course I couldn't help noticing this somewhat distant behaviour towards me – but no wonder, had the effects of his illness rendered him completely into my hands, and now he longed for his privacy again.

One morning, upon entering our sitting-room, I found him asleep on the sofa. Clad in his dressing gown, his pipe at the table and a lot of papers strewn all around him, he looked as if had been through a troubled night of intense brooding. Obviously, the old restlessness had begun to seize him again… Whether this was a good sign or not, I wasn't up to decide, although I must admit that I couldn't help worrying.

My first instinct was to retreat to my room again, but then I decided to stay. Maybe out of a foolish notion, I wanted to check upon whether he again was abusing his body for the sake of his mind, although this was not of my business; nevertheless, I somehow felt inclined to do it, as if it was one of my duties – not as a doctor, but as a friend.  
In his sleep, he had his left arm stretched aside, resting on one of the cushions, sleeve drawn back a little, so that I could take the freedom to screen it for fresh signs of punctures.  
Slowly and carefully, I leant forward, but obviously I hadn't been careful enough… With a sudden and unexpected reflex, he jumped up, catching my wrist with a grip of steel.

I had already expected harsh words as to the unwelcome interruption of his sleep, but contrary to his habits, he didn't say a word. His grey eyes were focused on me instead, screening me, until he recognized who exactly had been disturbing his slumber, and his gaze grew softer for a moment, only to be replaced then by a strange kind of gleam that I never had encountered before.  
I still was too shocked to move and remained motionless.

After a few seconds of silence, he stirred again.  
Slowly, he began to drag my wrist into his direction, lifting it up with much effort, as if it weighed a hundred tons, and then, much to my surprise, he suddenly closed his eyes and bent forward, lowering his head towards the back of my hand, until he touched it with his brows.  
So gentle, so delicate was his touch, that I held my breath – so incredible was this sensation, so soft, so warm the feel of his skin, so unexpected and yet utterly pleasant this gesture that I couldn't help remaining passive and waiting for him to end whatever he had begun.  
This action was but the matter of an instant, then he suddenly let go of my hand, turning away, his head bent down again – now a remorseful culprit, awaiting his verdict…

This turn of events had taken me very much by surprise, but I must confess that it was a most pleasant one, one that had touched something deep inside of me, and now my thoughts were running high.

…In all those years, I reflected, I had focused myself completely on mere friendship with Sherlock Holmes, since my respect and admiration for him was by far to great to allow me any deeper kind of feelings nor let myself pry into his personal matters. Moreover – so brilliant an intellect like his, so ordinary a man like me… the difference between us could not have been greater, I thought. Conveniently enough, it always was him who had been drawing the lines – acting masterful and unpredictable, sometimes even harsh and cold, especially when he was subject to one of his depressive moods, thus presenting me with a perfect excuse to mind my own business.  
And so I had found myself living quietly in his company, neither sulking in the shadows nor forcing my way towards the light, no, I had kept myself somewhere in the distance, always waiting for him to take the first step. Casting aside all emotions that ran deeper than occasional worries about his state of health, I had settled myself in this relationship, knowing my place, playing strictly to the rules – and becoming quite satisfied with where I was and what I was, in my perfect little world and my perfect little life.  
How blind I had been…

Still breathless, still wondering about what had happened, I forced myself to explore the depths of my thoughts.  
Had I been wrong about his personality?  
The greater the mind, the more intense the emotions?  
If yes, what kind of fires had to burn in such a soul…

But at the same time, one peculiar thought suddenly struck me like thunder – could I have misinterpreted his gesture?  
A most terrible fear seized me, filling me with absolute horror…  
What if I had misunderstood his intentions?

But then again, there was only one way to find out…

Slowly, I settled on the rim of the sofa, reaching out for him.

The texture of his hair was soft, even silky, his skin smooth and warm.  
Carefully, I followed the contours of his cheek with my fingers, and upon reaching his chin I tenderly turned his face towards me.  
He seemed to enjoy my touch, playfully but gently burying his face in my hand, until he at least dared to look up again and his eyes met mine…

Apparently this was one of those rare moments in which I was able to catch a glimpse of the real Sherlock Holmes, the personality behind the genius which in this very moment seemed to surface and expose itself to me, unguarded, unshielded.

His countenance had changed completely.

There was an air of wonder in his gaze, a joyous disbelief, a warmth that I never would have expected from such powerful an intellect.  
Indeed.  
What hunger lay behind these eyes…  
Kind and gentle eyes…  
Eyes so different from the purely intellectual stare focusing on his fellow humans with the cold brilliance of a superior brain, when he was about to explain some detail of his deductions, thus uncovering facts and unravelling connections where nobody would have expected them – a mere trifle to him, but to all the others the most stunning revelation.

These eyes that looked at me now were of an intense greyish colour, deep like ancient wells and speaking of a vulnerability that I never had noticed before, of a sadness, of loneliness, of deepest longing and darkest despair.

He was breathing heavily but remained silent, and neither one of us dared to utter a single word as not to destroy the delicacy of this moment.  
Still amazed, even overwhelmed by the turn of events, I kept wondering what might follow.

The moment he had reach out again towards me, there were footsteps on the staircase, and as he looked up, his gaze was clouded. Instantaneously, we both had decided to rise at the same time, but since he still kept hold of my hand, the connection between us was still unbroken, and only very reluctantly he let go of my hand, our fingers gliding slowly apart until we were separated again.

When Mrs. Hudson knocked and entered, the breakfast tablet in her hands, he had already assumed his usual air of distance and austerity again.

- + -

_(Holmes)  
_  
Mrs. Hudson never has chosen a more inconvenient time to appear than today.  
After all, when I found out that where my words would go amiss, my actions would be able to express my intentions , she enters the room, disturbs the course of action and leaves me somewhat shattered behind, on the remnants of my helpless attempt to make Watson see what I feel for him.

John Watson.  
Please forgive me, for I have done the illogic, the unthinkable...  
And what is even worse – I'm fully aware of what I' doing right now.  
I'm fully aware also that the consequences of my actions might be so bitter that in the end I could lose you, but after all I see no other way than staking everything on this very chance.  
Yes, this might be the price I'll have to pay, but if I don't seize upon this opportunity, maybe I'll never try again.

These are deep, uncharted waters, John, and I cannot predict to which shores this course will lead us.

- + -

There he is, looking straight at me, as our landlady is leaving the room, and he walks up to the door and closes it right now.  
His dark brown eyes are fixed on me, but I do not detect any signs of contempt or rejection, nor are there any doubts written into his face.  
No, he is perfectly calm, even determined, as he approaches me slowly, and now there is a faint smile on his lips…

- + -

* * *

(5) Latin, literally the "bigger", i. e. the major piece of work…

(6) Being one of the (technically) most difficult pieces ever written for violin, _Pjotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky_'s concerto Op. 35 in d major first seemed to be a complete failure. Written in 1878 and premiered 1881 in Vienna, this beautiful, sensual masterpiece was recognized for what it really was only decades later.  
Btw, Tchaikovsky was more or less openly gay, and most probably this wonderful concerto came only to life because of his failed marriage – as he wrote it as an antidote to his subsequent depressions.

* * *

_Sorry, there is a severe jump in the story line – some crucial parts are still missing, but at the moment I doubt their being published here, since the whole project is subject to changes and alterations presently, and I came even as close as to deleting the whole stuff. At least I managed to decide whether this story should be slashy or not, and the decision made was in clear favour of slash. So I took the liberty to continue with a passage taken from the later parts of my scribblings…_

_Please keep in mind when reading that we're dealing with a totally different time and a totally different code of conduct, and that our protagonists (Holmes and Watson) both are men of honour to whom adhering to the "manners" of their time meant everything. Showing emotions in any way other than determined by the non-written laws of Victorian society was preposterous, and love between the same sex quite unthinkable._


End file.
